


Whump

by Crockzilla



Series: Domesti-Kink with Spideypool [34]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Crying, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Non-Sexual Age Play, Whump, mild body horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-04-08
Packaged: 2019-04-20 03:42:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14252289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crockzilla/pseuds/Crockzilla
Summary: Peter and Wade have a terrible week, then a very scary night.





	Whump

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cody_Thomas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cody_Thomas/gifts).



> This is Cody_Thomas's fault for once again giving me an idea that I couldn't shake.

It had been a truly shitty week.

That should probably not have been a big deal. They’d both had their share of shitty weeks. It was just that they generally had lovely weeks these days, weeks that mostly involved romantic crime fighting and baking and snuggling and being weird together at the market and having a variety of kinds of sex.

This week, neither of them had slept. It took until Wednesday for them to tell each other that they were both having nightmares. It wasn’t until they described their nightmares to each other that they realized they were being fucked with. It took until Friday for their super-sleuthing to lead them to Mysterio.

Wade let Peter take the lead in beating the shit out of Quentin Beck. They had more history, and whereas Wade just felt drained and raw from the nightmares, Peter was fucking pissed. Typically, Spider-man would zip all around a villain, dodging and making puns and slinging web in an adorably energetic way. It spoke to his exhaustion and his anger level that Spidey was just wailing on Mysterio, only crawling a wall to give himself a better angle from which to punch. Deadpool mostly watched, occasionally stifling yawns, too tired to even appropriately enjoy the sight of his badass boyfriend pummeling a guy with a fish bowl for a head.

Maybe it was the lack of sleep that kept them from realizing this was too easy. Whatever the reason, Wade would never ever forgive himself for not noticing the gas canister until it was billowing smoke. He would never forget the way Peter turned to him, his expression so clear even through the mask, before collapsing coughing into the thick white cloud.

*~*~*

When Wade came to, he couldn’t move. As he pulled at his own arms, he could hear and feel them securing Peter to the chair behind him. These assholes had done their research and bolted him down first, knowing he’d recover from the gas much faster than Spider-man.

Their backs were to each other. He couldn’t see Peter, but he could feel the back of Peter’s head with his own. Sometimes. Wade looked down to see his arms were bolted to the back of the chair with some kind of metal bar with a lock. Whew! His Spidey would bust free of that in a jiffy once he was properly awake.

Except the people who’d done this to them started talking, and he could feel Peter’s strong arms straining, but no busting free was happening. Wade managed a closer look at the lock and realized that it was some kind of magnetized bullshit. These motherfuckers really had done their research. Maybe Spidey could break the bolt eventually, but he was exhausted and drugged.

And then Wade realized who these people were. They had brought down a whole drug ring, a few pieces at a time, over months. One night, they had found the ring boss’s asshole son beating the shit out of a kid. Peter had nearly put him into a coma, his goons too.

This was Daddy Asshole. Daddy Asshole was mad. He didn’t even give a shit who Spider-man was, he said – he just wanted to watch him beaten to death, slowly. And he wanted Deadpool to hear the whole thing.

The first sickening thud landed and Wade knew that Peter was being hit with a baseball bat. Peter exhaled hard – he’d taken a beating or two in his life. It wasn’t until the bat landed in his ribs that an audible sound came out of Peter, and then it was just a grunt. He’d cracked ribs before, and worse. Peter Parker was tough as goddamn nails.

Wade Wilson was not. Each time he heard the bat swing through the air, each time he heard it land and make Peter grunt with the impact, it felt like he was going insane. They weren’t here. This wasn’t happening. They were home, and Peter had thrown him down on their bed, and Peter was kissing him and Peter’s hands were on him.

He was panicking, and he couldn’t panic because he had to get them out, had to figure a way to break this fucking bolt off of his torso. He heard a rough laugh and realized that Daddy Asshole was amused by his efforts. He ignored it and kept trying. His legs were free, maybe he could overbalance them, if only he could block out the sound of Peter’s bones being crushed.

And then the noises stopped. A few more half-hearted whaps with the bat, and the goon stopped again.

“He’s dead.”

“Spider-man? No fucking way.”

Daddy didn’t believe it and had to see for himself. He didn’t even glance at Wade’s still form as he walked past him to look at Spider-man’s limp, lifeless body. He berated his goon for not making it last longer. Wade didn’t move. He didn’t make a sound. His reality was shifting.

*~*~*

Their nightmares had been different but very similar. That was how they had known it was Mysterio doing this to them.

Wade’s was something he’d dreamed before, he thought, or at least a hideous image that crossed his mind on a regular basis. He stood, alone, in a cemetery on hill. It was probably inspired by the place where he sometimes went with May and Peter to visit their Ben. It was lovely and also devastating, so sad you felt like you could go insane from it. In his nightmare, Wade looked down at two graves. He could feel a hundred graves, all of the people he’d loved even for a second, dead in the ground, but he focused on the two graves in front of him that read Peter Benjamin Parker and Eleanor Carmelita Comancho. The stones were beautiful.

Hearing Peter’s dream was somehow worse. He was sitting on the ground, holding Wade’s torso in his lap as Wade bled out, reassuring him that he’d be back in a flash, to sit right there and wait for him. Peter agreed, kissed him good-bye, didn’t let out the sobs straining in his chest. And then Wade stopped breathing, and Peter waited, watched the wound that had killed him, watched his chest, waiting for it to start moving again. And he waited. And he waited.

They should have known this one was a little mean for Mysterio to come up with by himself. He was an old school rogue, he and Spidey went way back and were friends in that weird we’ve-been-doing-this-for-fifteen-years kind of way. They should have known something else was going on. Wade should have known.

*~*~*

Wade’s brain felt like it had stopped. He heard a faint buzzing. He knew the assholes who’d done this to them were talking behind him, talking about what to do now that they’d killed Spider-man. Part of him thought he felt Peter’s shoulders, pressed against his, barely moving. He hated that part of himself, for making it up, for wanting comfort. There was no comfort in this new world he lived in now.

And then, through the buzzing, he heard a small sound of metal dropping to the floor. He glanced down and saw that something, what looked like a solid metal credit card, had dropped from Peter’s hand. It had landed next to his foot. He watched, pulse pounding in his eye sockets, as Peter’s foot slowly, silently nudged the metal card in his direction.

Wade felt himself laugh, once, wetly. Daddy Asshole and his goons were talking to each other, distracted, not realizing they hadn’t done all of their research, that they didn’t know that Spider-man wasn’t just strong but also smarter than anyone in the universe and a handy little pick-pocket.

Wade didn’t know how he managed to get his boot over the card, how he somehow slid it up his chair leg enough to reach it with the tips of his fingers, how he maneuvered it in the lock enough to break the magnetization. He didn’t understand how the motherfuckers that did this to them didn’t notice until he was free, until he’d grabbed a couple of sharp objects. But he would always remember killing the ever-loving fuck out of each one of them.

*~*~*

It was nearly sunrise by the time they got home. Peter’s lungs felt intact, so he was pretty sure his ribs were just all cracked, not broken (because he was intimately familiar with what a punctured lung felt like). He was able to talk Wade into going home, where he knew they both wanted desperately to be.  

Wade was being so gentle with him, and Peter tried so, so hard not to make any hurt sounds or let the pain he was in show on his face. There was just no way to move someone who’d been beaten half to death with a baseball bat without hurting them.

“Sorry, sorry,” Wade said for what felt like the hundredth time. He looked like he was going to vomit, and Peter wanted so badly to comfort him, but if he took his arms from around his chest he might scream and that would make things exponentially worse.

“It’s okay,” he said instead, trying to ignore how breathing hurt his stomach, “I’m okay, babe.”

He knew he’d scared him. He knew as he’d waited, taken enough hits for it to be believable, that Wade was going to think he was dead. It had made him feel sick even as his bones had broken, the thought of doing that to his sweet guy, especially after the nightmares he’d been having. Nightmare -- it was the same one over and over.

*~*~*

The worst thing about their twin nightmares was that it was impossible for them to really comfort each other. Wade reminded Peter that he would always come back to him, reminded him that he’d once tried cutting himself up into little pieces and feeding himself to sharks yet here he was. Wade could kiss him and hold him and tell him that it was just a dream.

But Peter couldn’t tell him the same thing. Peter would die, one day, one way or the other, and Wade would be left alone. He’d tried cutting himself up into little pieces and feeding himself to sharks yet here he was. There was no way.

But Peter still held him and kissed him and told him it was just a dream, that they’d find a way, when they were in their nineties maybe, to go together. He made up an elaborate plan to do with a bi-plane and a freight train. Wade suggested dying together mid-coitus, in their nursing home, just as they climaxed, their elderly bodies twined in the most obscene position that they had ever come up with. Peter cautioned him that that might not be a very nice thing to do to poor Ellie, who would be alive and have to deal with their gross sexy bodies and traumatized nursing home attendants. She would outlive the both of them by decades, because that’s how things worked with parents and children.

He told Wade all of these things, and they laughed, and they kissed, but he looked into Wade’s pretty blue eyes and saw that it didn’t really help. Wade knew it was impossible, and nothing could make it better.

And then Peter had pretended to be dead.

*~*~*

“We’re okay, honey,” Peter said, furious at how weak he sounded. “We’re home.”

“Yeah, we are,” Wade said, trying to give him a winning smile as he wiped blood from his face and throat with a warm washcloth. Motherfucker had broken his nose, and it felt like his skull was maybe cracked as well. All of it would heal, but he couldn’t stop grimacing as Wade gently touched him, and every grimace made Wade wince as if Peter had slapped him.

Peter focused on his breath. He had to stop torturing Wade. He’d done enough of that for a life time. He regretted every past instance when he’d taken a risk and made his guy afraid for his life. He’d always let Wade get back at him in excitingly kinky ways, and he’d always truly felt bad for scaring him and had apologized, but -- if he’d known this was going to happen, this awful night, he wouldn’t have been so reckless.

Wade was hovering as if he didn’t know what to do, his eyes shifting all over Peter’s broken, useless body. He tried to peel the blood-covered Spidey suit off one shoulder, and Peter couldn’t stop the yelp of pain that came out of him. Wade immediately stopped, shutting his eyes.

“It’s okay,” Peter tried to reassure him, “I can take it, it just surprised me.”

There was no way to get the suit off without hurting him, and Peter knew Wade wouldn’t try. Peter hadn’t been able to help his reaction when Wade had taken the mask off, and it had almost killed him.

“I’ve got to rearrange some of these bones, Sugar,” Wade said barely above a whisper, his hands ghosting over Peter’s limbs. “Big ones, at least.”

“Okay,” Peter said, trying to put on a brave face. “It’s okay.”

Wade started with his shoulder, and Peter managed to stay quiet during the process of maneuvering him into a place where Wade could get leverage. He bit his lips so hard that he tasted blood, but he successfully strangled the noise that welled up in him when Wade pushed his shoulder back into place in one mighty push.

But when he looked at Wade’s face, his heart sank. Hurting him at all was too much for his sweet man. And Wade was exhausted and sick just from not sleeping, from the awful dreams.

*~*~*

“When we get done kicking Mysterio’s ass, let’s take turns being Little all weekend.”

Wade looked up at him. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Peter said, taking his hand, rubbing his thumb over the scarred and torn skin that he loved so very much. “No patrolling, no grading, and only baking if it’s little kid baking.”

A smile, a real smile, grew on Wade’s face, and Peter felt better than he had in days. “You’ve got yourself a deal, Sweet Cheeks.”

Peter leaned in and kissed him. They were both kind of desperate for affection this week. And they could easily spend the weekend having outrageous sex, and that was comforting in its own way, but -- being Little and Big for each other was different. Peter felt like that was the comfort they needed after this shit-astic week, and judging by the way Wade curled into his side, he agreed.

And Wade would be Little first, Peter decided. He would try to make Peter go first, but Spider-mom would put his foot down. Wade needed it worse than he did; Peter could see in his eyes that he was already so worn down from exhaustion and fear that he was teetering on the edge of his head-space.

*~*~*

That had been Friday. Today. Earlier today, he had promised Wade they would be Little all weekend.

Wade bravely placed his hands around Peter’s wrist, which was very obviously broken. It looked like a twisty straw. It would have been kind of funny if it wasn’t making Wade look so lost and scared.

Peter’s heart hurt as he watched Wade try to negotiate how to set his wrist, try to push past the fact that it was going to be painful. Part of Peter, a part that was just reacting to the pain with anger, wanted to shout at Wade to get on with it. It made him more disgusted with himself than he already was because of what he’d done, how badly he’d scared Wade, how stupid he’d been to let them get caught, how weak and useless he was now.

Wade was looking at his face, and the fear in his expression was now more like anguish. “Oh, Baby Bear - please don’t be sad, it’s okay --”

Shit. Wade only called him that when Peter was Little, which meant – Shit. Peter swallowed, which hurt.

“I’m not,” he insisted, “I’m not Little, I’m okay.”

Wade petted his hair, barely touching him for fear of causing him pain. Peter did his best to master his expression. He was not going to cry. Wade loved making him cry when it was fun crying, when it was just an overflowing of emotion at how good Wade was making him feel. Wade could not stand seeing him cry for real, from sadness or pain or anger. Peter had to stop feeling fucking sorry for himself, had to start acting like an adult. Wade needed him.

“I’m okay,” he said, shaky voice betraying him. “Let’s just try to go to sleep, c’mere --”

But as he tried to move over on the bed to make room, he sent a stabbing pain through his torso, and he couldn’t help gasping at its sharpness. Wade put his hands on his chest to stop him from moving any more.

“I’m so sorry,” Wade said, curling over Peter’s body in a way that looked both protective and defeated.

Peter tried to shake his head but it made his vision almost white out. He wanted to hold Wade so badly, to make him feel safe, to show him he was okay, to tell him this was all his fault and that Wade had been so brave.

He had no idea how Wade had gotten the little magnetic disk from where Peter had pathetically nudged it toward him, how he’d somehow gotten it into his hand and then figured out how to unlock the bolts. Wade had chosen to kill everyone in the room before releasing him, which Peter had fully expected. As he’d watched Wade decapitate each of their captors, with all the creativity and enthusiasm with which his love approached every task in life, part of Peter had felt deeply satisfied. Part of him could have watched his badass boyfriend kill all of those fuckers ten times over. The thought made him feel ill.

Wade hadn’t killed anyone in a long time. And he was already exhausted and feeling Little and had been scared so very badly.

“It’s okay, baby,” Peter tried his best to sound soothing, to be Spider-mom, “everything’s okay --”

Wade nodded his head, but he still looked so lost. He’d given up trying to set Peter’s bones and was just petting him, as if trying to make the pain go away like that. Peter put his hand over Wade’s where it lay on his chest, pressing it to him as much as he dared, and they breathed for a moment, just feeling Peter’s heartbeat together.

Peter suddenly felt the edges of his pain, the haze pushed back by one clear, practical thought. They both needed taking care of. And they could not take care of each other. They needed help.

*~*~*

The phone ringing at four in the morning was almost never a good sign.

Steve sat straight up and reached over a groggy Peggy to pick up the little device. Bucky stirred on his other side. Peter was calling.

“What’s wrong?”

“We’re okay,” Peter said, not sounding okay at all. “But we need some help.”

“Are you at home?”

They were. Steve crawled to the end of the bed to get up, but by the time he’d dressed, Peggy and Bucky were both nearly ready to go as well. He was not going by himself, not at this hour, not when their friends were clearly in distress.

He had never known Wade and Peter’s home to be quiet. There was always laughter or happy shouting or singing or something ridiculous on the television. The quiet scared the hell out of him.

Peggy and Bucky wordlessly chose to stay in the kitchen and let Steve find the couple first. They had called Steve, and he could think of only one reason why they would ask for him in particular.

He found them in their bedroom, huddled on the bed together, Peter propped up against the headboard and unnaturally still with Wade sitting next to him, knees to his chest, as if he wanted to be as close to Peter as possible but was afraid to touch him. They both looked small in the light from their bedside lamp, and when Wade turned around Steve saw that Peter’s suit was covered in blood.

“Hi, fellas,” Steve said, pushing down his own fear and approaching them as he would skittish small animals. That turned out to be the exact right move because the second he got close to them, both of his friends kind of melted into tears.

Steve tried to ignore the ache in his chest as he negotiated their positions to get his arms around both of them. Peter was clearly hurt, but Wade didn’t seem to be, so he kind of pulled Wade against his side and leaned them both into Peter without putting weight on him. Peter didn’t seem to care judging by the way he wrapped his unbroken arm around Steve’s neck (and shit, his other wrist looked like a damn twisty straw), and Wade eagerly curled into him, their foreheads meeting in the middle under Steve’s chin, sobbing quietly the way little children did when they’d had a genuinely awful fright.

“I scared him,” Peter whispered into Steve’s chest, his voice hitching with tears. Wade let go of Steve’s shirt to pet Peter’s cheek.

He dreaded to think what could have gotten his strong, cheerful friends into this state. Steve tried to rock very slightly, afraid to jar Peter too much. Once they calmed down, he’d have to get Peter out of his blood-covered suit and probably have to set his wrist so that it didn’t heal wrong. That was sure to be fun. He wished, as he often did even these days, for his mother, who would know what to do and have Peter all patched up before he even realized what was happening. Steve knew from experience.

“It’s all right now,” he said in a low voice, still rocking gently. “I’m so sorry this happened. It’s okay.”

As Peter and Wade continued to quietly sob into either of his shoulders, Steve became aware that Peggy and Bucky were just in the door, mostly in the shadow of the dark living room. Of course they were. Peggy had her hand to her mouth, and Bucky gripped the doorframe as if barely holding himself back.

It did not escape Steve that he was, currently, the only member of their friend family who had spent time with Little Wade. He knew Bucky and Peggy harbored not-so-secret jealousy toward him because of this, but they had been patiently waiting for the day when Wade would feel comfortable enough to share that part of himself with them. Peggy might have picked out and purchased a stuffed baby seal in anticipation of that moment.

This was not how any of them had imagined this going.

“Guys, Peggy and Bucky would like to help, too,” Steve said to the shaking bodies he was holding. “Would that be okay?”

He sensed Wade look at Peter, and Peter nodded against his shoulder. He glanced up and raised his eyebrows to let his family know they were welcome. Peggy immediately approached the bed with a large bottle of purple something in her hand, and Bucky made a bee-line for the bedroom closet.

“I found this in the medicine cabinet,” Peggy explained, lightly touching Peter’s shoulder as she held the bottle out for him to see. “It should help with the pain, and it’s grape flavored.”

Peter unwrapped himself from Steve, slowly because of the state of his poor body, and let Peggy settle him back against the bed frame as Bucky set two stuffies down on the bed, a fluffy monkey in a clown costume and a sweet looking penguin. Wade, still mostly tucked into Steve’s chest, set the monkey in Peter’s lap before pulling Penguin close. Peter practically up-ended the bottle of grape-flavored children’s ibuprofen, which made Steve feel a bit sick, but the thick purple liquid seemed to immediately have a comforting effect on his friend.

Setting Peter’s wrist was not quite as bad as Steve had feared. Now that they weren’t alone, Peter and Wade seemed to be able to age up a bit, though Wade stayed alarmingly quiet. He sat on the floor next to Bucky as Peggy pulled Peter’s bones into place as quickly and efficiently as she could. Steve helped Peter stay still since Peggy’s field medic skills had always far outstripped his. When Peggy was satisfied she’d done her best, hoping that Peter’s healing factor would take care of the rest, they wrapped his wrist in a bandage that they’d found in the couple’s first aid kit.

They needed to see the extent of Peter’s injuries, and to do that they needed to cut the suit off. Peter, who seemed to be sliding between adult and Little head, assured them it wouldn’t be the first time. Bucky quickly found their safety scissors in the craft drawer (because he’d made a craft masterpiece or two in this apartment) and held Wade’s hand as they cut the blood-soaked suit away from Peter’s skin. Wade seemed to want to stay close to the floor, so Bucky sat with him, surreptitiously coaxing him to an angle where he couldn’t quite see everything. Steve was glad – Peter looked like he’d been through a machine.

“What on earth happened?” Peggy asked as they applied cold compresses to the worst of Peter’s bruises. Peter, who was settling back into his Little space and had kind of a rapport with his Aunt Peggy, told her everything – no sleep, nightmares, baseball bat, decapitations. He spoke quietly, as if trying to keep Wade from hearing. Wade sat listening next to Bucky for the majority of the story, but when Peter got to the part where he’d played dead and Wade had miraculously saved the both of them, Wade crawled over to the bed, kneeling up so that he could lay his head close to Peter’s arm.

When Peter had finished the story, Bucky abruptly stood up. “I’m making pancakes,” he announced before heading to the kitchen.

“I’ll supervise,” Peggy said, sharing a glance with Steve before following him. Steve had been afraid that seeing Peter so hurt and seeing his friends so small and upset would cause Bucky to age down hard, but for now he seemed solidly in Big Brother mode.

By the time Steve had convinced Wade that he could curl up next to Peter on the bed without hurting him, Bucky and Peggy returned to the bedroom with three plates stacked high with pancakes. It might have been the rough night they’d all had, but more likely it was Bucky’s excellent cooking that made them scarf up the warm, buttermilk-soft disks in seconds with their bare hands. Poor Wade seemed like he wasn’t going to eat at first, but Bucky was able to coax him into it. Steve had seen Wade Wilson devour most of a holiday ham before, and seeing him eat so slowly and tentatively just made Steve’s heart hurt worse than it already did.

Peter seemed to be feeling much more comfortable, and the two Littles were obviously exhausted. They decided to let them have their privacy and tucked them in together in their bed. Peter gave each of them a hug and kiss, saying thank you and love you. Wade was still not speaking, but he leaned into each of their hugs.

If Peter and Wade had been in their adult heads, they would have absolutely plotzed at the idea of their friends sleeping on the couch. Luckily, the three of them were able to sneak blankets from the hall closet and arrange themselves in the living room without disturbing their hosts, who were already fast asleep.

“Should one of us sleep in there?” Bucky asked as he settled in the middle. “Just in case?”

“We’ll hear them,” Peggy reassured, wrapping an arm around Bucky’s waist. Now that the other boys were asleep, he was seeming a bit more in need of affection than usual, even if he wasn’t all the way Little. Steve slid his arm around Bucky’s shoulders, his fingertips brushing Peggy’s hair, and fell quickly and deeply asleep.

When they woke up, which was well into the next day, Peter Parker was standing over them, plotzing.

“We have an air mattress!” he cried in dismay as he tried to tuck extra pillows around them. His spider-healing was obviously working, but he was still sore enough that it didn’t take much to get him to lie back in bed.

“I’ll make snacks,” Wade offered, heading to the kitchen. He’d tried to approximate his usual manic gusto, but Steve could feel the shame rolling off of his friend in waves. Damn – he’d been afraid of that.

But as he was about to follow his dad!friend and tell him that they were so happy to have been able to help, that it had meant to much to them, Peggy got to the kitchen first. Steve hung back, peaking through the door to see Peggy with her arms around Wade. He couldn’t hear what she was saying to him, maybe she wasn’t saying anything, but after a moment or two Wade returned the hug, even rested his chin on Peggy’s shoulder. Steve smiled and went to help Bucky re-fold the blankets they’d used.

“We were already going to stay in this weekend,” Peter assured when Steve asked if they needed them to stay longer. “I was going to make Wade be Little first, but I’m not really in shape to Spider-mom, so.”

Peter shrugged, but it didn’t cover the depth of his disappointment. Steve squeezed his shoulder. Gently. “It’ll help him to get to take care of you, pal. I promise.”

“Thank you for loving us,” Wade said as he gave each of them a to-go bag full of snacks at the door, “even when we’re being extra.”

Steve did not know what extra meant in this context. He still didn’t know on Monday when they received a hand-made, glitter-covered card that contained a drawing of Peter and Wade and a speech bubble saying, “Sorry We’re So Very Extra.” He still laughed to himself and put the card on their refrigerator.

*~*~*

“This is awesome.”

Peter happily sipped his juice box, all tucked up snug on their couch. He wasn’t in his Little headspace any more, but he still felt as content as he’d been all weekend while his Dadpool had taken care of him. It almost quelled the revulsion he felt every time he saw or thought of the yellowing bruises covering his own face and body, every time he caught Wade looking at him with that lost, pained expression.

“Have we ever done this?” Peter asked, snuggling against Wade’s side as his sweetie sat down next to him. “Stayed in like this without patrolling or anything?”

Wade shook his head, giving Peter a wan smile. It was a shame Peter had to get beaten half to death and traumatize the shit out of both of them before actually taking a couple of days off.

Peter could see Wade spiraling. He hadn’t noticed it as much when he’d been Little, or maybe focusing on taking care of him had helped Wade avoid this inevitable fallout. Peter wasn’t fairing any better, if he was honest. Getting sleep had been great, but it turned out the delirium had been partly helping him not think of being helpless, useless, bolted to a chair.

“I’m staying home tomorrow, too,” he said with finality.

“You don’t think your cornucopia of injuries would lend you immense cred with your students?” Wade asked, trying to sound like himself. “It looks like you were the cutest instigator of a prison riot in the history of prison riot instigators.”

“Yeah, no,” Peter said with a laugh, then suddenly felt kind of sick. He had to ask, though. He’d been thinking about it. “I understand if it would be, like – disturbing for me to be Spider-mom right now. With how gross I look. It’s okay if you’d rather wait.”

Wade pulled him close, much more gently than he usually would. “Not gross,” he said between kisses.

*~*~*

Making out seemed to be incredibly therapeutic for both of them in that “oh we’re both alive and can make out how wonderful” sort of way. However, Wade still wasn’t sure about letting Peter take care of him. He was feeling much better, moving almost normally now thanks to his Spidey-healing (which Wade had to admit to being pretty impressed with), but surely he needed to keep taking it easy. And anyway, Wade wasn’t sure he could successfully age down, let himself fall into that quiet, easy place. When he thought about it, he felt shame roil in his belly.

He didn’t say any of this to Peter as he grabbed his purse (his plainest one because he just wasn’t feeling very zazzy at the moment) to go out and pick up buttermilk as Bucky had used all of theirs to make delicious pancakes. He nearly ran over the small object that sat outside of their door – a precious stuffed seal, he now saw, with a card attached to its soft, gray fur.

 _His name is Oslo,_ said Peggy’s lovely sharp handwriting. The card said nothing else. It didn’t need to. Wade took Oslo back inside and introduced him to his Spider-mom, who decided that they didn’t need buttermilk right now after all and that they should watch _Wall-E_ instead. They both got a little upset towards the end when Eve thought Wall-E had died, but it was an okay upset. It was good to let yourself be upset sometimes, Spider-mom told him, kissing him on the forehead before they fell asleep together on the couch.

**Author's Note:**

> Bless you all for indulging in whump with me. If you would like more angst with similar themes, check out Bitter_Barista's Another Year of Immortality (we are an angsty little fandom this week! YAY!!)
> 
> I promise I'm working on kinky fills!!! Dr. DP, Sounding, Vampire Gloves, adorable age play, and MOAR! 
> 
> Got an idea/request? Tumble me! crockzilla.tumblr.com


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